Dry Bones
by Spinnd
Summary: Son of Man, you cannot say or guess, for you know only a heap of broken images where the sun beats. I will show you fear in a handful of dust. [Mac Centric, slight MS.] Reviews much appreciated. Final Chapter uploaded.
1. Prologue

A/N: A 6-part Mac-centric piece. Rated M for language and mature situations. Spoilers for S1 and S2 – "Blink", "Charge of the post"

Disclaimer: CSI:NY is created and owned by Bruckheimer, CBS and the lot. No profit will be made from this. Historical events have been re-created and re-interpreted for entertainment purposes only, and is not a representation of the author's view w.r.t events mentioned.

Acknowledgments:

Wikipedia – the fastest source of information for amateur writers like myself. 

Poets – Quotes used from the works of William Shakespeare, T.S Eliot & W.B. Yeats. 

FanficNet writers – I've trawled the Net reading stuff written by people like Dimgwrthien, Stellaluna, poloparadise and many others not mentioned. Much of my inspiration and character study comes from their writings and here's me saying thanks. Thanks.

_He has no excuse for pulling the trigger now._

_He has had at least four better reasons to get himself killed than this._

_He was probably just having some severe mood-swing._

**PROLOGUE**

You think too much. Everyone can see that. You need some time off, time for yourself; just shut out the rest of the world for a while.

You can't keep this up much longer. You are human after all. I mean… have you seen yourself lately? All red-eyed and pale-faced – on your way to joining Hammer's Hall of Monsters, hmm?

Damn you do look like hell.

Hey, look at me when I'm talking to you. Look at me! Shit, sorry, sorry but hey you got to face up to facts. You couldn't lock yourself in the office forever.

Too many things to handle? You can say that again. Soldier, captain, husband, friend. Yeah alright, ex-soldier and ex-husband, Mr. Pedantic. What? It's supposed to be Lieutenant? Hell, you really need chill out and take things easy, you know, take a trip somewhere nice, soak in some sun, walk the beaches and just be -

Woah, what the fuck are you insane?! Put that down. Put. It. Down. Oh hell, this is bad. You are not serious, no you are fucking not, put it down!

Shit you're insane you know that? Not to mention selfish. Yeah, selfish, you heard me. You ever give a thought about who's gonna come in and find bone and organ all over the floor? And they'll have to call the police and the team – your team, mind – will have to process this whole place and this would become another in the long list of ongoing investigations and you would have just added to the problems in everyone else's lives.

Oh yeah, Stella would also have your head if you went and did something stupid like that. Yes she would, and you know it.

Anyway, it would be a terrible waste for you to go like that. Huh, Marine Vet, Head CSI, all that would look good on your obituary, but I can tell you it won't be an open casket ceremony. Nope, not with your head half gone. And it's really very unbecoming too. Now will you please put it back in the drawer there?

Thank you.

Insane idiot? I'll say. You've had at least four better reasons to get yourself killed than this. If you could live through them, you can live through this. You've got so much to live for – shut up, yes you do.

Well, how about love? Hmm. Your emotional side never fully developed, did it? You can be a real ass sometimes. No, all you need is to open your eyes and your heart once in a while. Lighten up, loosen up, take that pole out; you might learn to like it. Well, Stella would appreciate it, Danny would stop cracking jokes behind your back, Lindsay would feel less suffocated, Flack would stop wanting to hit you: just to name a few.

Yeah, yeah, sure whatever. Told you you needed time off.


	2. Agincourt

_Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, and say – _

_These wounds I had on St Crispin's Day. Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, _

_But he'll remember with advantages what feats he did that day._

**I.**

Hands scrabble frantically at his collar.

"Mac, Mac…"

"Hold still!"

Amidst flailing hands, he pushes down hard as more liquid oozes between shaking fingers. It puddles beneath his hands, leaks over the edge, and warmly soaks into the knees of his green fatigues.

"Can't feel my legs Mac, can't feel them. They still there? Mac, are my legs still there?"

"Yeah, yeah they're here," he looks over his shoulder for the medic. "Both of them, right here."

"Oh God, help me."

"Where the hell are they?"

"Mac!"

"Shit, will you shut up?" His elbows give way and he almost pitches forward into the red mess that is his friend. Hastily, he straightens back up and tries to scoop the slime back in. There is sand in his gut.

"Medic!"

"I don't wanna die, Mac-"

"Shut the fuck up and don't move. Medic!" He feels his own hysteria slither up his spine. "The hell is taking them so long?"

"Don't wanna die, I don't wanna die. God, I'm scared, I don't wanna die…"

Grimy hands grip his own as the man beneath him starts to cry.

**II.**

When they reach him, the body is still warm, only just cooling at the extremities. He sits back on the sand and watches mutely as the overworked medics cover the body and drag it off on a piece of tarp.

"Damn it, Taylor, get your ass over here and make yourself useful."

He stands on feet not quite his own and stumbles past body bags toward his unit commander, hands unconsciously wiping off blood and puke and sand. It would not be until they haul out the second screaming soldier from under the rubble that his vision goes white and the ground unexpectedly connects with the side of his head.

**III.**

They ask if he wants to keep it as a souvenir; his very own twisted, bloodied badge of courage. All he can feel are the needle points where the stitches have run through and the dry cracks of charred skin under the scratchy gauze. He tells them no, and is glad when they finally shrug noncommittally and walk away.

From where he lies, he can barely make out the shell of their headquarters against the glare of the mid-morning sun. He absently calculates that today is hash and beans day. He likes hash, even badly-burnt peacekeeping hash. The new cooks do it better than their predecessors. He's seen them up and bustling about in the building at 0600 in the morning. Normally, you could smell the frying at slightly past 0630.

They didn't get breakfast today, he solemnly realizes.

He closes his eyes, breathing shallow to avoid inhaling blood and sickness, and tries to remember how it ought to have been.

**IV.**

They serve him his papers - honorable discharge due to expiration of enlistment and completion of tours of duty. True to his word, once a Marine always a Marine, his name goes down on the IRR list. They will find him when they need him.

As he walks out the door, Tomlinson claps him on the shoulder with his good arm.

"Semper Fi, Mac."

His returning smile loses humor and stretches into a grimace that pulls lines of regret across his face.

"Semper Fi, mac. We'll always have Beirut."


	3. Acheron

_There is a golden hour between life and death. If you are critically injured you have less than 60 minutes to survive. You might not die right then; it may be three days or two weeks later -- but something has happened in your body that is irreparable._

**I.**

Before he realizes it, he's on his knees, hunched over around the biting pain that tears through the right wall of his abdomen. White noise screams into his ears, flaring down his neck, and his back seizes up in kind sympathy as he rolls over – gently! his mind screams at him – onto his back, gasping softly.

He feels a body land next to him, a gush of breath rushing out of it, and above the masculine grunt of discomfort he hears a curse, oddly delicate and decidedly feminine.

"Fuck."

She slaps the perp's head sideways, shoving her hand down into dark hair and slaps him again for good measure.

"I thought you said the crime scene was secure," she barks at the two officers who come running up to them. "Assholes."

"Stell-?"

"Hold on Mac," she gets off as the man is hauled up between the uniforms. "Get that fucking bus down here, ASAP. If he dies on me, it's going down on your records."

She tears off her jacket and jams it between his arm and side, wincing unconsciously when the sudden pressure drags a small cry from his lips. She brushes a hand across his brow and tries to ignore the barely discernible tremors that are now breaking into more pronounced spasms.

"Nothing serious," he grinds out past clattering teeth, "probably just a flesh wound." He jumps at a flash of pain and squeezes his eyes shut.

"That sort of stupid macho bullshit doesn't work on me, Rambo."

"Nuh-huh, I figured" he breathlessly shakes his head. She reaches over to adjust him into a more comfortable position, clicking her tongue softly.

"You cold?"

He exhales a laugh, breath curling in the dim light. She glances up quizzically from where she is checking the wound.

"Yeah," he tells her after a minute or so. "I'm cold."

She threads her fingers through his and squeezes comfortingly, her other hand still pressing down firmly on the bullet-hole until it goes quite numb.

**II.**

She is still clutching his hand when they wheel him into the back of the ambulance. The paramedic shuts his mouth for fear of his wellbeing and allows her to climb in, no questions asked. She sits at his left side, secretly smug and perceivably worried in equal parts.

"Mac?"

He blinks slowly and moves his lips beneath the oxygen mask.

"Hey, sshh, it's alright. You're gonna be alright."

"Huh," he grumbles fuzzily, eyes gradually closing.

She stays by his side until they reach the hospital. Then, the doors jolt open, the staff rush in and around, whisking him away to the theatre, and she is left standing in the stark white hallway with a dark red coat clutched in her bright red hands.

**III.**

"Are they still charging regular prices on the ferry?"

She jerks up with a start and moves closer to the bedside.

"My obolus is missing," he rasps when her silhouette comes into view. He lifts his tongue in explanation. "See? Charon will never let me get across in this state."

She frowns, suddenly worried he's hallucinating, and stands up to examine his drips closely.

"Aw Stell, call yourself Greek."

He is rewarded with a fierce scowl.

"Mac, being Greek is different from storing useless trivial information in an over-sized head." He has to nerve to grin back. "And you're not even supposed to be awake, much less talking. They had to patch you up something good; they took so damn long, it's not even funny."

It strikes him suddenly how very lost she looks, even as she sets her mouth into a strong line and convinces him that the glint in her eyes are not tears but merely tricks of the light. He hasn't the heart to tell her New York streets get terribly dark this time of night.

"Stella, I-"

She leans over suddenly and kisses him quickly, softly, pointedly.

"Shut up before I set Ceberus on you."

**TBC.**

Citation: Dr R Adams Cowley, Tribute (1917-1991), University of Maryland Medical Centre. 


	4. Atlantis

_But afterwards there occurred violent earthquakes and floods; and in_

_A single day and night of misfortune all your warlike men in a body sank into the earth, _

_And the island of Atlantis in like manner disappeared in the depths of the sea._

**I.**

They say Atlantis is a myth, distorted facts of a Trojan War or an Athenian invasion fantastically re-worked in an old man's head. But he knows better – he knows, and would rather believe, it to be metaphor for innumerable disasters that strike innumerable empires and leave them flat on their backs, coughing up their own soot.

The twin beams shine strongly upwards, dispersing on occasions when low clouds pass that are too thick for the tribute in light to punch through.

Inhabitants and rulers of the land fated to be brought low in their prime. Then, 8000 years before Plato, now 2352 years after Plato, and the story hasn't changed one bit.

He steps back, gently rotating strained muscles that complain as they have for the last four years, almost to the day he raced from his office downtown in time to see the South Tower collapse; 56 minutes from impact, 55 minutes from the last call he would ever receive from his wife.

He braces himself half a second too late: hears a tremulous sob catch into a hiccough and shamefacedly grits his teeth to force the lump back into his chest; blindly reaches out to grab the pillar as physical pain threatens to crack his sternum in two. He presses a hand against clenched teeth and vainly struggles to get his breathing under control.

Control. Control, fuck you, control.

He broke down once; once was bad enough. He doesn't have to try very hard to feel the bruising grip of firemen's hands on his shoulders as they held him back, yelling above his frenzied incoherence something about _he can't do that, can't go in, get away from _– something. He can't quite remember now. The rest had been lost in the roar and the ash.

He lifts his head and peers through the railing, unsure of what he's looking for. Maybe he's still hoping she will come back to him, rising up to re-materialize Phoenix-like from the years of dust and smoke. She had better hurry up with that - once they start building the Absence, she'd have a lot more concrete to work through.

His resulting laugh is a little too high, too short, too mad.

They're taking over her grave; one step away from desecration, that's what it is – building a structure over her grave and calling it In Memorium when all it is is really just a charnel house. Ash for bricks, bones for stones.

"Why can't you just leave her alone?" He whispers to nobody. "Leave her alone, damn you."

He slides down the pillar into an awkward sitting position, tucks his legs in and wraps his coat around tighter. When morning comes, he will silently curse himself for letting Stella arm-twist him into relinquishing work for that day and leaving him with a head full of memories and a cabinet full of benzodiazepines.

**TBC.**

Citation: Plato, _Timaeus_, 360BC


	5. Avalon

_Halcion(R). Triazolam 0.25mg. Chemical formula C17-H12-Cl2-N4. 100 tablets.   
Store at room temperature._

_Cellulose, corn starch, docusate sodium, lactose, magnesium stearate, silicon dioxide, sodium benzoate, FD&C Blue No. 2._

_Do not exceed prescribed dose, do not mix with alcohol, do not take if pregnant._

**I.**

His head hurts and he wants to sleep badly, but someone keeps shaking him and will not let him alone. He rolls over, feeling sluggish and absolutely exhausted.

"Mac! Damnit, Mac, how many-?"

A sharp slap sends sparks dancing across his lids.

"Fuck…" He moans into his sleeve.

"Open your eyes, come on," she rattles the bottle next to his ear. "How many did you take, Mac? How many pills?"

"Not-not many. I don't know… not many. I-" He almost forgets the question. "Tree- Three, six," pain etches itself around his eyes, "seven. Seven? Couldn't sleep, Stell. Couldn't stop thinking. Just wanted to sleep, just– didn't want…wouldn't let me…"

He hears her swear to do him bodily harm as she scrolls his cell phone and thinks she calls asking for a Dr. Fried Man, but he can't be sure.

**II.**

He follows less closely behind once they reach her door. Inside, she hands him a glass of water and makes him stay on the couch while she tries to throw together a decent meal in her kitchen.

"That was probably the most idiotic thing you've done," she lets her voice slowly drift around the space. "But you've probably figured that already."

He doesn't tell her that he thinks the loaded gun he put into his mouth years ago, just to taste the notion of suicide, is probably worse by far. He wants to defend himself, tell her the overdose wasn't intentional and wasn't that dire anyhow, admit it was a momentary lapse of judgment – not a first, either – and a decision more than usually impulse driven. But he keeps silent and studies his drink.

"Flack's been awake and talking since yesterday, so we're all rather pleased about that, as you can imagine." Her notification skirts the issue deftly, and he tries to respond properly.

"I'll drop in for a visit tomorrow." He would have done so earlier, if he could've.

"He said to relay his thanks if I saw you before he did." A clang of pot against steel stove reverberates harshly.

His hands shake just a little as he downs the contents of his glass.

"Yeah."

**III.**

He takes the doses under her dutiful supervision. It was a compromise - his doctor had wanted him to take an extra week off on top of the previous week of forced leave and he had disagreed, to put it mildly. So Dr. Friedmann had agreed to his returning to work on the condition that he was with someone for the course of his medication.

Which now translates into three more days at Stella's. What must old Mrs. Granger on the second floor be thinking? He mentally rolls his eyes at himself and returns to looking over some case file that he brought back.

**IV.**

She doesn't know whether to cry or to throttle him when he shows up at her door at three-bloody-o'clock in the morning, water puddling on the floor from his wet overcoat and raindrops making his short dark hair stand at angles. At that moment, framed in the doorway, he looks much younger than he'd been given any right to be.

"Rebound insomnia, I've heard about it," she tells him after he changes into a dry spare set he left behind at her place.

He rubs his face tiredly. "Well, it was nice while it lasted."

"And so it's back to sleeping at the job." She frankly isn't surprised that the hypnotics failed to have a long-term effect on the chronic insomniac. If anything, she is just grateful that they might have taken him two steps back from his breaking point.

The silence stretches, pulling them along. She can almost see it warping the room around them. Her eyes flick to him, hoping to catch his gaze and offer an expression of comfort. But he is studying his glass again, clamming up and wrestling down all fears and frustrations, folding in and down and in on himself so deep that he could implode and no one would notice except her.

"You did good that day," she finally ventures. He remains as he was before; forearms resting on his thighs, his breathing slow, face set behind a careful mask.

"You hear me? You did good. Don't let anyone- don't let yourself think any different."

And she sees a crack in an erratic blink, thinks she sees a hairline fissure run like a muscle tremor along his jaw line, but she can't be sure.

**TBC.**

**Drug Information: **Wikipedia, Medlineplus Encyclopedia, MentalHealth.

**A / N : **The author does not intend this article to advertise abovementioned medication, nor to give an experienced account into the workings of Triazolam and other generic benzodiazepines.

P.S. – Last chapter coming up soon! Thank you for your patience.


	6. Epilogue

Warning: This chapter contains references to child rape and murder. Just so you know.

**EPILOGUE**

_I sing what was lost and dread what was won;  
I walk in a battle fought over again.  
My king a lost king, and lost soldiers my men,  
Feet to the Rising and Setting may run,  
They always beat on the same small stone._

**I.**

Really isn't worth it, is it, mate? Never-ending cycles of blood and death; you've got your own private Samsaric hell. Karma doesn't seem to like you much.

_Oh hell, we're at it again. I thought you weren't listening to this crack-head anymore. _

You know, I feel for you. In a sea of dead soldiers, freed criminals, innocent victims and traumatized survivors; there's you. What do the others know, aye? They can't possibly understand.

_Man, this is some-ass stupid and you know it. Put that thing down. (I've said that before, haven't I?)Shit, will you please – look, this is getting tiring, and I'm getting pissed off. I can't believe we're even having this angel-devil standoff in your head. _

Oh, screw them. You don't need this. Take control of your life and death for once – all you need is to hold it, load it, and squeeze the damn trigger. Problem solved. No blood on your hands, no ash in your hair, and no dust choking up little girls' throats.

_Ah….fuck. _

**II.**

Danny looked positively green when he saw her but he tried his best to remain objective. The lady who found the body was beside herself, tearing and stammering through her statement; who wouldn't have? Kid was facedown in the dirt, naked, lacerated and blood-smeared, brown hair splayed out and tangled. They pitched her age at around seven or eight years old. Once we get an ID on her, we'll know for sure.

Hammerback looked no better when the sheet came off. Took a while before he could finally bring himself to crack her chest open. COD was suffocation; found some dust in her lungs – about a handful. Varying bruises showed abuse over an extended period of days. The rape kit came back negative for semen, but blood and vaginal tears didn't lie. Condom, we theorised. Fuck-sick paedophile: that we agreed on. Vehemently.

We checked over the crime scene again; scoured the shadow under the rock where we found her more than twice over. The perp had rain, luck, or skill, or all, on his side. We returned almost empty-handed to the lab, to Lindsay who handed us the Missing Persons file on the girl - she was to turn eight in exactly a month.

Two days later, it was the same case, same MO, same frustrating lack of evidence. Only this time, the girl with brown hair was a blonde girl with a stork bite birthmark on the back of her neck. By the weekend, she became a seven-year old Hispanic girl. The hell was this, DJ Pratt Jr.?

It was three; then it was four, then five. Then six in less than two weeks. The suspects we interrogated all had alibis and right now, we were fresh out of leads.

I don't want to know how many more he will claim before we catch him, I really don't. I can only reside in the hope that when we finally do, I'm going to personally castrate him and feed him to him piece by humiliating piece.

**III.**

_I applied myself to the understanding of wisdom,_

_And also of madness and folly,_

_But I learned that this, too, is a chasing after the wind._

_For with much wisdom comes much sorrow;_

_The more knowledge, the more grief._

_The more knowledge, the more grief._

The more knowledge, the more grief.

This ain't worth it. This ain't worth anything. Knowledge ain't worth a straw. For fuck sake, they were little girls...

What the hell am I doing?

…I don't know.

…I don't care anymore.

**IV.**

She wonders where he could be after the sixth ring, hopes he hasn't done anything stupid (one never knows) after the seventh, is about to hang up on the eighth and try again when there is a click over at the other end.

"Mac?"

She hears him draw a shaky breath.

"Y-yeah."

"Is this a good time?" She hears a faint rattle and a drawer shut rather loudly.

"Uhm, yeah. Yeah – uh," he exhales into the speaker, which crackles in protest. "What do you want, Stella?"

"Just wanted to ask if you were up for breakfast this morning."

The pause is briefer than she expects it to be.

"It's five o'clock, Stell. It's one hell of an early for breakfast."

"I know, but you're not sleeping or anything, are you?"

"What – well, no, but, I-"

"So you've got nothing better to do."

In the longer pause that follows, she closes her eyes and imagines she can see him perched hunched on the bed, face pale, eyes haunted and ringed purple, muscles knotted and seizing tiredly down along his back.

"Uh, look…Stella-"

"Come on, Mac. It's your birthday. I'm not letting you hedgehog in your room on your birthday. Not after that last case. Humor me this once? I'll make it my treat."

She steals this opportunity to pray rather guiltily to a long-neglected God and asks rather desperately for Him to force an affirmative over the phone line. Fingers crossed.

"Huh, uh… well," he clears his throat, "none of them except Mr. Wong's would be open yet."

Her heart jumps, just a little, at that.

"Is that a yes?"

His laugh is weary but honest.

"Yeah, okay."

"Great." She doesn't attempt to hide her widening grin. "So, how soon can you be there?"

**V.**

He's still smiling when he puts the handset into its cradle. Fifteen minutes later, he is dressed for work and is about to head out when he stops to check himself in front of the mirror.

His eyes are still red, but much less so around the green-gray glint of his irises. He studiously brushed at his collar and automatically his hands reach to adjust his tie when suddenly, he gives them pause. With a smirk and a furrowed brow, he undoes the silk knot in one smooth motion.

The tie goes into the briefcase, for later. One last tug on his suit straightens out the creases to his satisfaction. And then he's out the door, service pistol snug in his holster, the smirk still playing on his lips as he locks his door and pockets the keys.

**FIN. **

'Hedgehog' - A lovely 'Mac-esque' description found while lurking around the SMack Ficathon Livejournal – had to use it. Credits to them.

Citations: W B Yeats– 'What Was Lost'; The Book of Ecclesiastes (NIV Bible).

**A Lengthy Note:**

My apologies. Between preparing for the start of college in Feb and one hard epilogue to edit, this update comes less soon than I expected it to. So yeah, the last chapter's up, finally – but suggestions for tweaking and reviews are still more than welcomed, of course. My perfectionist muse still feels a tad dissatisfied with this.

I know all the chapters are somewhat vague and loose in terms of canon chronology (eg; the epilogue's post S2 period factors Mac's birthday into a pre-Peyton timeline). It's probably because I've only watched approx. 10 CSI:NY episodes in total. But thanks for putting up with that anyhow.

Well, here's me signing off. Thank you again, all readers and reviewers (whimsy and Fruitbat – cheers mates). I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I have writing it.


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